


Negative Space

by Saturn_the_Almighty



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: AI death, Bc Space Marines, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, Drowning, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gun Violence, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Present Tense, Sidewinder fic, Survival, Wilderness Survival, adding tags as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21786880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saturn_the_Almighty/pseuds/Saturn_the_Almighty
Summary: Sometimes, to really understand someone, you can't read what they give you. You have to see in between the lines, in the negative space.
Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons, Dexter Grif/The Meta | Agent Maine, Dick Simmons/Dexter Grif/The Meta | Agent Maine, Dick Simmons/The Meta | Agent Maine
Comments: 18
Kudos: 16





	1. Mετ. t -- -  a -__!!! __-- MAINE.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RosieHarleyShow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosieHarleyShow/gifts).



Simmons doesn't let go.

He can hear Grif yelp as he hits the snow and gets dragged too quickly, far too quickly towards the edge of the cliff. Simmons doesn't let go. He holds on as tight as he can, fighting against the weight that’s pulling them both down now. He can barely hear the shouts from his teammates, the blood rushing in his ears is too loud. He figures the Meta has just as good a grip on Grif as Simmons does because they're not slowing down. The edge of the cliff is too close for comfort. Simmons sets his jaw and tightens his grip. Grif is _not_ falling. Not on his watch.

But then there's nothing beneath him. No snow, no rock, just empty frigid air. Simmons can't open his mouth to scream. His jaw clenched, he pulls Grif's arm to his chest and curls around it, hearing the unmistakable sound of his voice through the radio. He's shouting incoherently, something about the world spinning too fast. Simmons can't bring himself to say anything. His stomach is a knot of adrenaline and his heart is beating so fast he's sure if he opens his mouth he'll throw up.

Grif doesn't stop shouting until they hit the water.

* * *

The Meta doesn't deal well with heights. _He_ didn't either. The cliff is slippery and there's nowhere to hold onto when he starts getting tugged towards the edge. In the corner of his vision he sees a bright orange, just a glimpse. But it's enough to make him reach out. Anything to stop him from falling. But it doesn't help, grabbing onto the sim trooper’s leg. It just makes everyone start shouting and the Meta doesn't like shouting. He hates it.

He feels the ground disappear and he's suddenly staring up at the open sky. The Meta doesn't miss the weightless feeling. He doesn't miss anything, really. But someone missed it. Someone familiar and old but just out of reach. _He_ missed weightlessness. the Meta struggles to wrench himself free from the hook lodged in his chestplate. He's still holding onto the orange soldier's leg. He frowns, looks down at the hook and releases his hand.

With a split second to spare, the Meta yanks the hook free and tosses it as far as he can. His head slams against a slab of thick ice as he hits the water. It cracks his helmet. the Meta’s eyes are wide and alert now. He's sinking. The water above him, blue and icy, is tinted orange by his visor. The jagged cracks splayed out across his vision are slowly letting in the cold, blue water. Then his vision starts swimming and there's dull pain in the back of his neck.

It's a familiar pain, one that he's grown used to. Sigma is trying to tell him something, trying to get his attention. He always preferred this way rather than just _talking to him._ But the pain doesn't go away and he can't communicate with Sigma. The dull ache swells to a burning, itching sensation and Maine reaches up to scratch at it. He’s still got his helmet on, though. He can't _get to his implants_. The Meta starts panicking. He fumbles with his helmet seals, not paying any attention to the water that floods his senses. He screws his eyes shut and searches for his implants.

Maybe it's his biggest mistake. Maybe it's his most perfect one, but as his helmet sinks slowly towards the bottom of the ocean the pain in his neck turns electric. The Meta can hear quiet voices, steadily rising. He knows them all. Some he hasn't heard in a very long time but he knows them all. And every single one of the AIs are screaming. It _hurts_. The Meta presses his hands over his implants. To do what, he doesn't even know. But he has to do something. The AI make him _him._ Without them he’d just be— whatever he was before. He can't lose them.

Above the crackling voices, fuzzy and broken, the Meta can hear one clearer than the rest. He’d know that voice anywhere. “No, no, no!” Sigma yells over and over. He yells louder than the rising chorus of screams. The Meta clamps his hands over both his ears. Sigma’s voice is hell inside his head. Its incessant and abrasive. The voices reach a screeching volume and the Meta's vision starts to white out. The pain in his neck spreads down his spine and it aches behind his eyes.

He can't take it.

The Meta scratches at the seams between his AI cartridges and the implants. He claws at them desperately. The pain has turned his vision spotty, or maybe that's the lack of air in his lungs. Everything piled on top of everything else, the pain and the voices and the loud thumping of his heartbeat and the aching of his lungs. It’s all too much and he just wants it to stop.

The muffled click of the cartridges disconnecting from the implants is a beautiful sound. It stops the voices. The Meta's head is filled with silence. Sweet, soft silence. No screaming. His eyes, sliding half-shut, land on the blinking lights of the AI falling through the water below him. The tiny colored lights go out one by one and send the water into complete darkness. The Meta still can't breathe. He's still underwater, a few hundred pounds of metal weighing him down.

He needs to get back to the surface _now_. The Meta reaches up towards the ice, something solid. He can almost reach it, just a few more kicks. His fingers scramble for purchase on the slick ice and he wishes, more than anything, that someone else would help him.

He hasn't thought that for a very long time. Sigma taught him to rely only on himself and the AI. Never ask anyone for help, never expect anyone to help. He had heard those words over and over and over until they were the only things he really believed. The Meta— or, whatever he is now without Sigma, hauls himself back on top of the slab of ice despite his lungs screaming for air and his muscles aching in protest. He allows himself exactly ten seconds to catch his breath. He closes his eyes and listens to the silence. The severe lack of the familiar buzzing in the back of his neck.

He doesn't miss the buzzing. Silence has always been better to him.

The ice is thick and cold and the Meta lays his head against it and stares up at the sky. It's been longer than ten seconds. He should find a way back to the shore. He should— what should he do? What is there to do? Sigma always gave him a set list of instructions. Now he is gone. The rest are gone too. No more AI. Why doesn't he feel something? Sadness, anger, relief even. Why doesn't he feel _anything_ for them?

It was like they didn't matter all that much. Except they did. They had been the driving force in his life for almost as long as he can remember. Isn't it natural to feel something for such a big part of one's life? Maybe. Isn't it natural to feel something for the one who has controlled one's life for years? Maybe. Isn't it the hardest thing in the world to recover from psychological and emotional abuse? Maybe. According to psychologists.

The Meta never did like psychologists. They messed with his head. At least, the one he knew did. What was his name? Price. The Meta sneers at the name. He hasn't thought about that man in a while. No need to when Sigma thought for him. Now Sigma is gone and he can think for himself. Think… for himself. What does he want to think about? The Meta lifts a hand up to the sky. He traces the edge of the cliff with his finger. It's so high above him.

He wants to think about— about apologizing. Just saying he's sorry for what he did. It wasn't him. Most of it wasn't him but if he won't apologize no one can. He wants to tell Connie he's sorry for not listening to her. He wants to tell York he's sorry for not getting one last drink with him. He wants to tell North he's sorry for shooting him and tell South he's sorry for leaving her alone and he wants to tell Wash he's sorry for tearing out his heart and he wants to tell Carolina he's sorry for throwing her off a cliff.

He wants to tell them he should have been better but they're just as gone as Sigma and they were just as bad as he. The Meta lowers his hand, lets it fall back onto the ice. It's really cold. Being wet doesn't help much. Every gust of wind chills him to the bone. He decides to get out of his armor. It's only weighing him down. As he starts to remove the heavy, dented chestpiece a realization hits him. He _can_ be better. He can be whatever he wants. And he wants to be someone who— who means something to someone else. That would be nice. He was never that person before Freelancer or during and he just wants to mean something. Without being manipulated and corrupted and told sweet lies. Or maybe he can be who he was before. Or, try to. Who was he before? Who was _Maine?_

Maine wouldn't have cared if his AI drowned at the bottom of the ocean. So he won’t either. There, one step closer. Maine probably wouldn't have grabbed onto the orange trooper’s leg. Oh well, no helping that now. Maine would toss his discarded armor into the ocean to cover his tracks. There, done. The Meta— he supposes he should be called _Maine_ again— Maine watches the armor sink with a strange sense of satisfaction mixed with vulnerability. Of course, now the only thing between him and a bullet is a quarter inch of waterlogged high-tech kevlar.

Lovely.

He should probably get somewhere more sheltered. He doesn't want to be completely at the mercy of the elements during the nighttime. He stands up with shaky legs and looks around. The icy cliff stretches up to his left, open ocean to his right. Behind him is a narrow, rocky shore. Straight ahead are two colorful sim troopers. One is face-down in the water. The other, the orange one, is frantically trying to swim towards his friend. Maine stares at them for a moment. He makes a split-second decision. He takes a few steps back on his slab of ice, rolls his shoulders to limber up and full-on sprints to the edge of the ice. He gets a decent few feet of distance as he dives into the icy water and feels around in the darkness for the maroon armored sim trooper. 

It isn't hard to find him. His armor lights are blinding and cut through the clear water. Even with his vision blurred he can find his way in the darkness. He reaches out and grabs ahold of the sim trooper’s shoulders. The water resistance is against him but he fights his way to the surface and locks his arm securely around the trooper’s chest. It’s difficult to drag an unconscious body in power armor all the way to the shore but he's Agent Maine for gods’ sake. He can do _anything._

Anything includes wrenching off the maroon soldier’s helmet and running back into the water for the orange one. He’s floundering, struggling to keep his head above the water as his waterlogged armor tries to sink him. He is awake and aware though, so it’s easier to help him to safety. Maine, once on the pebbly beach, stumbles over to the two sim troopers and lays down, exhausted, half- burying himself in the pebbles. He turns his head to look at them, just in time to see the orange trooper pulling off his armor and throwing it carelessly somewhere.

“Simmons?” he says, his voice small and scared.

“Simmons wake up,” he tries. Maine’s eyes slide closed despite himself and the sim trooper feels for a pulse on Simmons’ wrist, his neck, his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this about eight months ago (to date the quality of this ahaha)


	2. Grif

Grif feels strangely disconnected from everything as he falls. His movements are clumsy as he tries to lodge the Grifshot in the ice cliff to save himself. His voice, loud and ragged as it is wrenched from his throat, does not even feel like his own. It is as if he is experiencing everything from behind ten inch thick bulletproof glass.

The only thing that snaps him out of it is the sickening crack of a helmet against ice. At least, he thinks it's a helmet. It could be a skull. Oh goodness, what if it's a skull? _Where is Simmons,_ his mind screams at him as his jarring return to alertness sends him into overdrive. He's not holding onto Simmons’ hand anymore. He can't see him. He can't see _anything._ His visor lights are off and the water around him is dark.

His HUD can't take the pressure of the water around him as he sinks. _Stupid faulty equipment. Stupid broken temperature control,_ Grif thinks as he struggles against the hundreds of pounds of armor pulling him under while his HUD screams at him to get to safety and out of his armor. _Hold on,_ he thinks. _My safety isn't more important than Simmons’._ He just needs to get to the surface. Just to see. He needs to know that Simmons is alive.

And somewhere in the dark and frigid water two sets of lights flicker to life and illuminate a familiar helmet laying face down at the surface. Something clicks, deep inside Grif and he starts to swim like his life depends on it. It does, in a way. Because even if he survives who will he be without Simmons, the man who doesn't hesitate to help him even in his stupidest moments? Grif pulls himself above the water and peers through his darkened visor and the accumulating condensation from his warm breath. Simmons always kept his armor in good condition. His emergency floatation is working, clearly. Keeping him from sinking to an icy death.

Simmons isn't conscious. Grif should know, he's always been skittish around water. Grif is half convinced he doesn't know how to swim. A bad thought creeps to the forefront of Grif's mind. _Maybe it was his helmet that broke against the ice. Maybe his skull._ He drowns that thought as he tries to keep Simmons from doing just that. Grif silently curses every time that Simmons has ever talked at him about fluid physics because he is painfully aware of how difficult it is to swim ten feet in his armor. Damn water resistance.

Grif doesn't want to give up. He doesn't want to slip below the surface again because he might not have the strength to bring himself up again. His arms start to give out, muscle cramps impeding his progress. Simmons is _right there._ He can't start sinking again, he can't. Simmons needs him, _he_ needs _Simmons._

Grif frantically kicks his feet, trying to stay afloat and he grabs at Simmons’ armor, still too far out of reach. Grif's head dips under the waves. _No._ Simmons is floating farther away. _No._ A figure dives into the water and starts pulling Simmons away. _No!_ Grif opens his mouth to shout but all he gets is a mouthful of water. His helmet is breached.

Grif swallows roughly and tries one last time to swim to— to somewhere else but his arms are quickly pinned down and he can feel himself being pulled by someone through the water. He can't turn and see who it is but he tries not to be excited at the thought of one of the Reds and Blues rescuing them. Grif tries to help by kicking his legs but there's no power in his movements and he feels like he might pass out at any second. He's dropped on a pebble beach face down and it takes him a second to get his bearings. The second he does his armor is coming off and he's crawling towards Simmons, helmet off, who looks like death.

Grif blocks out everything else as he wrenches off Simmons’ gloves to check for a pulse. He doesn't feel anything. Grif can feel his own heartbeat in his throat as he moves his fingers to Simmons’ neck.

“Simmons?” he whispers. Nothing there either. His hands are shaking now. Grif takes off Simmons’ chestplate and puts his ear directly over his heart. The impossibly quiet _thump thump_ is the most beautiful sound he's ever heard, the slow and barely noticeable rise and fall of his irregular breathing.

“Simmons, wake up,” Grif tries again. No reply. _At least he's breathing. At least his heart is beating,_ Grif thinks. It doesn't sound like there's any water in his lungs but Grif doesn't even know what he'd do if there _was._

A shifting of the pebbles in the corner of his eye has Grif in a defensive stance in front of Simmons. He doesn't expect the unfamiliar man lying on the ground at his feet. It's not one of the Reds and Blues. Some part of him is relieved, because _whoever_ it is seems injured. He has a gash on the back of his bald head and there is a cut on the end of his nose bleeding into the pebbles.

His breathing is slow and deliberate and his eyes are closed, thank goodness. Grif isn't strong enough to try and fight someone twice his size. Come to think of it, that isn't much of an exaggeration. The guy must be at least seven feet tall, broader across the shoulders than anyone he's ever seen. The guy's out cold, which is a green light in Grif's mind. He carefully steps closer and nudges him with his foot. He's _solid._ He probably works out. Probably—

Grif's mind catches up with the obvious hints and he freezes where he is. The man on the ground at his feet is the Meta. Who tried to _kill them._ Who pulled him and Simmons off a cliff. Grif clenches his fists and glares at the Meta. He should leave him here, pick up Simmons and start dragging him up the mountain back to their friends.

He _should_ but he _can't_ because his muscles aren't cooperating and he can't lift Simmons more than a few inches. Grif sits down on the frozen pebbles and crosses his arms. He's freezing. The chilly air rushes past him in his waterlogged undersuit. The Meta— he tried to kill them but he _saved_ Simmons. He dragged him out of the water and went back in for Grif.

What does that mean?

Grif rests his forehead on his knees and pulls his long hair loose to let it dry. _That means that either he's had a change of heart or he wants the satisfaction of killing us himself,_ Grif thinks. He slowly crawls back over to Simmons and pulls the tactical knives out of his and Simmons’ armor. If it comes down to it, he'd rather they be the one with weapons. Even if the Meta can crush his windpipe with one hand.

Grif plants himself between Simmons and the Meta, his gaze trained on the Meta’s face and searching for signs that he's awake. If he is, he's doing a great job of hiding it. Grif shivers involuntarily as a gust of wind whips past his head. He's not toing himself any favors keeping his undersuit on. At this point he's only speeding up his inevitable hypothermia.

Dropping his knife to the ground, Grif unzips his undersuit and tenses up at the chilly air against his bare skin. _Next step is to find a sheltered area and build a fire,_ he thinks, remembering all those stupid mandatory survival classes he took in basic. Thank goodness he was actually half paying attention. If not, he'd probably already be dead. Speaking of dead, the Meta isn't moving.

Or more accurately, he’s sitting up now, frozen in pain, one hand on his abdomen and his face screwed up like he's waiting to be punched in the face. Grif levels him with a blood-curdling glare and snatches his knife from the ground. His undersuit is only half off, hanging over his waist. The Meta’s eyes slide up from the ground and stop before he even gets to Grif’s face.

His chest is a patchwork, covered in scars. From the giant abomination over his sternum that refuses to heal fully, shaped like a cross— _he always feels like he's being crucified, always being stared at like Frankenstein's monster— to_ the tiny incision made by the rude doctor who took out his appendix when he was eight. His left arm, a few shades paler than the rest of him, dotted with freckles and grafted right onto his shoulder, stands out somehow in the dimming grey light of dusk. The Meta's eyes sweep over Grif's body again and again, lingering on his face, then his hands, then his hair.

Grif feels his stomach turn over. The feeling of eyes all over him makes his skin crawl.

“Stay where you are,” he growls through gritted teeth, brandishing his knife. His voice is hoarse, dry despite all the water.

“I'm going to make sure my friend doesn't freeze and if you're lucky I'll do the same for you.” He's not the best at being intimidating but the Meta falls back onto the pebbles and doesn't make a move other than wincing at his own pain. Grif makes quick work of Simmons’ undersuit, peeling it off his damp skin, careful of his chest which is still not doing well. His breathing hasn't improved and Grif is starting to think he has bruised ribs or worse. Fat load of good his _armor_ did, huh?

A tired sigh escapes him as he turns back to the Meta and notices he's sitting up again. This time there's panic in his eyes, though, and his mouth is open like he wants to scream. Grif's chest tightens despite himself when a trickle of crimson blood drips out of the Meta’s mouth and onto the pebbles. He wipes his mouth sloppily with the back of his hand and gives Grif a sidelong glance as if daring him to say something. Grif doesn't. Just to be clear, though, he feels confident enough in his own strength and more importantly the Meta’s current lack, that he feels like he can take him on if it comes down to it. That counts for something, but the feeling is dulled by the lack of pride that comes with being willing to stab an incapacitated person.

Grif is true to his word most of the time, though, so he kneels down next to the Meta and hovers his hands over the zipper. The Meta flinches away from him and Grif rolls his eyes.

“You can get hypothermia if you want, but I can also help you out of your wet undersuit and we can make a fire and get out of the wind. Your choice,” he says icily.

The Meta sighs through his nose and tilts his chin up, just waiting for Grif to get it over with. His hand is still pressed to his stomach. Grif unzips the undersuit as far as it will go. He hesitates, his eyes on the dark patch where the Meta's hands are pressed, then carefully, gently lifts his hands and unzips the suit the rest of the way. As soon as the suit is off him the Meta's hands are back, curled almost into fists with how much pressure he's putting on his wound. Grif makes a mental note to check that when they have a fire made and tosses the Meta's undersuit next to his and Simmons’.

Grif lets out a shuddering sigh and looks around. Heading up the mountain is their best bet. There might be a trail leading back up to the cliff or something. Either way, it gets them away from the water and out from under the cliff. Positioned the way they are, come morning they'll be blocked from the starlight nearly the entire day. Speaking of starlight, it's fading fast. Grif can feel the temperature dropping even as he slings the undersuits over his shoulder and makes one last thorough check of their armor. Simmons, thank goodness for him, still has two space blankets folded up in one of his armor compartments and Grif wastes no time in wrapping him in one of them. He looks like a Simmons burrito and that almost makes him laugh.

Almost.

The tactical knife he's carrying makes quick work cutting the other blanket in half and he balls up one of them and tosses it to the Meta, draping his half over his shoulders.

Grif then tucks the knife carefully into the waistband of his boxers and bends down to pick up Simmons. Simmons doesn't budge. Grif grunts with frustration and nearly collapses with effort. He's still worn out, still sapped of all his energy. He reluctantly looks back at the Meta, struggling to get to his feet with a gaping wound. Grif waits until he's on stable footing before turning fully to him.

“I can't pick him up,” Grif says, his voice pitifully weak. He had at least thought he might be able to nudge Simmons into a sitting position but he has grossly exaggerated his own recovery.

Maybe it was all the metal? Two steel limbs probably gave you a few extra pounds.

The Meta is tying his space blanket around his neck like a cape. He's shivering, fingers shaking so much it takes a few tries. Grif thinks to himself that he's looking at the world's shittest superhero. Hazel eyes bore into his own mismatch pair.

Grif never learned sign language. Not ASL, not the UNSC standard, not contact sign, nothing. The gestures and signs that the Meta tosses at him leave him more confused than he thought he'd ever be in this situation.

"I don't know what you're saying," Grif huffs, crossing his arms. His blanket crinkles. The Meta points sharply to his neck, the splatter of scars in starburst patterns not betraying the brutality that led to them. Bullet wounds. Grif's gaze flicks over them, counting. His eyes widen as the number ticks up.

It's a miracle he's still alive with that many holes in his neck.

Grif pulls his gaze away, focusing on the Meta's eyes again. They're cold, hard and unmoving.

"Can _you_ at least manage to pick him up?" Grif tries, willing himself to _not_ look at the wound on his torso. As soon as the knot on his space blanket was tied his hands had immediately snapped back to the gash, pressing down on the flesh hard, trickles of blood seeping from between his fingers.

So that was a _no,_ Grif reasons, the dark and pointed glare he gets from the Meta confirming. Grif sighs, noting how much his chest aches when he does. He gazes down at Simmons, who's breathing has gotten stronger since he's been laying in the pebbles.

He guesses the only thing to do is try again. And this is Simmons. _Richard fucking Simmons._ If Grif can't try for him, what good is he? If he can't make a real effort for the one person he cares about with certainty… then they might as well all freeze to death.

Simmons isn't exactly _hard_ to carry once Grif finally manages to get him off the ground. Cumbersome, sure. And the metal limbs add quite a bit more than a few pounds, so he's sideheavy. But Grif is going to do one thing and that's make sure his best friend doesn't meet an icy end. Not if he has anything to say about it.


	3. Maine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy. It's been a nice seven months, hasn't it?
> 
> That was sarcasm, it absolutely has not. Please enjoy this chapter if you can ❤

Maine has to admit that trekking through an icy landscape in nothing but his underwear is not only something he never planned on doing but also a far cry from what he would ever expect to be the safest way to stay alive. Thankfully he can still wear his underboots and avoid getting frostbite. Whoever designed UNSC armor knew what they were doing. Aside from the whole ‘if you fall off a cliff into icy water, I'm sorry, you're fucked’ part. 

His arms are starting to ache but he doesn't dare try to move them. The last time he attempted to shift the unconscious sim trooper in his arms he got a knife blade to his throat before he knew it. Grif, he's come to know him as due to his compulsive need to talk about something and fill the silence, is surprisingly protective of his teammate. One small movement that he doesn't like and Maine’s likely to get stabbed sooner rather than later.

The man walking in front of him is a living patchwork quilt. Skin grafts and small pieces of biomechanics holding him together, his chest and arms a battlefield of scars. His body tells a story that Maine isn't ever going to hear if they don't make it out of this.

Maine has never really made it a habit to care about other people. Which is mostly how he got himself in the situations he did.

The one time, recently, he decided to care about someone he got stuck carrying their unconscious  _ maybe boyfriend. _ Right now.

Maine's abdominal gash— as he so lovingly calls it— has taken forever to scab over and it still splits when he makes too big movements, but he's still got the strength to carry a gangly man made of 85% limbs. Maybe the temperature has helped the coagulation. He only hopes he'll survive. He supposes Grif is just exhausted and winded from all the talking he does. It's actually a miracle he trusts Maine enough to hold the precious cargo.

Grif if listing off the flaws and strengths of all his teammates as he stoops to pick up suitable sticks for their inevitable fire and tries to get them to stay still when he puts them into his helmet.

Grif had spent about two minutes trying both the maroon and the orange helmets for radio but his was the only viable option so he's brought it along. If they can get a signal, rescue will come a lot quicker.

The slope they're on isn't too bad, though, and Maine's had worse so he doesn't think he can complain.

The most difficult part by far is going to be finding a sheltered place soon enough and getting the fire going before they all hit too low a temperature.

"Mostly I'm just worried about Simmons," Grif is saying. He picks up another two sticks and adds it to the growing pile in his other arm. "I mean, his prosthetics do have automatic heating and cooling but I'm afraid the hardware for it might be broken and he'll end up getting frostbite on his stumps sooner than we do so I think we can… "

Maine tunes him out. He's heard that exact sentence out of Grif's mouth already, corroborating the idea that he either doesn’t remember what he’s already said or that he is fond of repeating himself. A cursory glance at Simmons shows no signs of frostbite on his 'stumps.'

Really, the carrying isn't so bad. The talking isn't unbearable. The too-small square of space blanket on his back is doing a tiny bit of help. Things could be worse.

They could also be better. Like finding a cave.

The cave is found in a mere ten minutes as they crest a hill. An enormous wall of grey rocky cliff face stretches up above them and the cave is created from the splitting of two different kinds of rock, making a sort of triangle shaped opening with a giant gash spidering up into the distance from it’s apex.

Grif stumbles over his own feet and nearly drops the pile of kindling in his haste to reach the cave. Maine thinks he’s trying to shout something but he can’t hear over the wind picking up. He focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, over and over again until the air sounds different and he looks up, eyes adjusting to the darkness in the little cave.

Grif is already crouched around the pile of kindling, arranged perfectly, and is glancing around the floor of the cave and realizing he’s forgotten the fire starting kit that’s mandatory in every soldier’s armor.

“God, we’re so lucky there’s flint here,” Grif mutters and he kneels in front of the kindling, bracing the flat end of his knife against his thigh and gripping the chunk of flint in his other.

Maine gently sets Simmons down on the opposite side of the stick pile, near where Grif tossed their undersuits, and waits with his hands slowly cooling in his lap while Grif chips away at the knife with his flint.

A few sparks and a lot of shielding the embers from outside wind with his hand and Grif has a small self-sufficient fire going. Maine watches him suppress the urge to jump up and whoop in triumph. Instead, he gestures to Simmons and Maine moves him closer to the fire.

"With any luck, he'll wake up soon and we can make a plan." Grif is scratching his chin, deep in concentration. “We’ve got to find an outpost or something soon so we can get armor, or at the very least clothes.”

Grif scoots until his back is against the cave wall and curls up as best he can, tucking the thermal blanket over himself.

“I remember flying over an outpost on our way here, it can’t be too far away. The problem is, we still have to get to the top of the cliff.” Grif is thinking aloud at this point and Maine finds he doesn’t mind all that much.

“I don’t suppose you have any maps of Sidewinder memorized?” Grif asks. It’s a joke.

The thing is, Maine  _ does _ have maps of Sidewinder memorized. He can probably guide them up the cliff  _ and _ to the nearest outpost fairly quickly. Only, he can’t exactly tell Grif that.

He nods anyway, pointing up and then making a little house roof with his hands, hoping against hope that Grif can deduce what he means.

“Uhhh, yes you  _ do _ have Sidewinder memorized?” he guesses. Maine nods again.

“And… You have, uh, I know that’s a roof, a home?” Maine shakes his head.

“We can go up to the top of the cliff, because you know the way, and then… an outpost!” Grif snaps his fingers a little clumsily from the cold, but he sits forward and points at Maine. His unbridled enthusiasm is hard to want to kill, so Maine just nods, and if a shadow of a smile passes over his face too, then, neither of them mention it.

“Oh, this is great! As soon as Simmons wakes up, we can have two of us go up to get suits while the other stays behind, most likely it’ll be you and me going, we come back and then we can all be on our way nice and warm!”

Maine frowns. He instinctively starts to sign  _ ‘why two of us? Why not all of us?’ _ before Grif’s confused expression deepens.

Instead, he gestures to Simmons, holds up three fingers, and pins Grif with a look that’s clearly questioning.

“Well, Simmons is gonna have a hard time getting through snow with his prosthetics and he’s still injured, so it would just…”

Maine sighs, barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes, and moves over to Simmons, miming picking him up again. He looks back to Grif, raising his eyebrows.

“Ohhhhh wait!” Grif finally moves back, closer to the fire. “You’d still carry him? Even when he’s awake?” His voice quiets at the end, all the certainty trickling out of it.

Maine purses his lips. He’s already carried the guy all this way. And he  _ is _ still injured. It’d be cruel. And  _ Maine’s _ not cruel. Maybe not a law-abiding person, so to speak, and certainly self-serving, but not cruel. He nods slowly at Grif to make sure he understands and turns his face back to the fire.

"Thanks," Grif says, and it sounds like he means it.

They sit quietly, warming up by the fire and listening to it pop and crackle before Grif sucks in a breath and sits up straighter.

"You're not— well," he sighs, "are you the Meta?"

Maine lifts his head and meets Grif's eyes. He shakes his head surely. Grif lets a tiny bit of tension seep from his shoulders.

"Do you still have those AI?"

Maine starts, his eyes widening before he can stop himself. His hand instinctively whips around to cover his neck. Grif, to his credit, looks sorry about asking now. Maine shakes his head.

"So you're not gonna try to kill us again?" Grif's voice has a forced quality to it, like he's trying  _ so hard _ to lighten the mood. Maine shakes his head again, this time pairing it with the sign, hoping that Grif will learn what it means.

"That's good. I'd hate to have to try and fight you," Grif says conversationally. "I'd lose."

Maine won't deny that, so he just sits back again, holding his hands closer to the fire. He tries to sneak glances at Grif every once in a while but he's  _ always  _ staring back at Maine when he tries. It's a little disconcerting, being able to freely see people's faces. Maine thinks he'll have to get used to it.

Grif maneuvers Simmons' head into his lap once the fire starts to lose mass and he tells Maine that he should get some sleep.

Maine gets up and leaves the cave. He scours the ground for branches and sticks, finding little dry scraps that'll keep the fire alive for longer and returns as quietly as he left. Their undersuits are laid out flat near the fire, drying slowly.

Grif is carding his fingers through Simmons' hair and stops abruptly when he sees Maine again. He looks guilty about it for reasons unknown and Maine doesn't comment. Not that Grif would know if he did. It's the principal of the thing.

He dumps the kindling by the fire and holds up four fingers, using simple gestures to try and convey to Grif that he'd like to be woken up in four hours.

Grif is smart. He figures it out.

Maine nods once more before turning away from the fire and curling up, trying to cover as much of himself with the space blanket as he can.

It occurs to him, fifteen minutes through uselessly closed eyes, that he's trying to go to sleep in an unprotected area around two strangers. One of whom is awake and has possession of a knife. No wonder.

Simmons wakes up when Maine is pretending to sleep. He guesses it has to be about two hours. He'd love to be asleep, but his body won't let him. He's not safe here.

Grif starts to whisper Simmons' name, increasingly hysterical, and he's finally interrupted by a frail and pained-sounding "Grif?" Maine's eyes crack open.

Maine can't be sure that Grif is crying unless he turns around. Which he doesn't. Grif _ sounds _ like he has tears streaming down his face.

"I didn't think you'd wake up," he breathes, which is a surprise to hear. He'd been so sure…

"I didn't want to— Simmons, you can't— don't ever—” Grif's speaking in between breaths, the kind you get when the crying gets too much. Grif is a silent crier. Experienced.

"Shhh," Simmons quiets him," I'm okay, I promise. I'm here."

They're both quiet then, only the sound of the fire and their breaths and the wind outside. Maine closes his eyes again.

"Simmons, I love you."


End file.
